Read Somebody Wonderful Online
Authors: Kate Rothwell
Somebody Wonderful (12 page)
“Often. But I go bright red.”
She lay on her back. Mick stretched out next to her, propped up on one elbow. He admired her body in the soft light of one candle. Mick’s finger slowly traced her thigh. She was a small woman, but she was graced with such good, long curving lines. He stopped at a large bloody smear that stretched across the smooth skin of her thigh, and he peered at her shoulder. “Ah no. Did one of your cuts open? Or are you having your monthlies?”
He lightly kissed her injured shoulder above the cut, and, as an afterthought, tasted the side of her elegant neck with the tip of his tongue.
She looked down at her leg unconcerned, and rubbed at the smear. With a musing air, she said, “Now that is interesting. I’d assumed with all the hard travel and some of the wretched horses and pack animals I’ve ridden there wouldn’t be a hymen left to rupture. I must have been wrong.”
He shoved himself bolt upright and stared down at her, horrified. “You- you are . . . a virgin?”
“Not any more.” And she showed him the sleek, sly smile.
He reached down and gathered her up, as she squawked with protests. He pulled her onto his lap and rocked her and rested his cheek on her hair. “Oh, Jesus, I didn’t know, Timmy. I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry.”
None of her encounters with other men on her strange journeys, nor even the brutes from the whorehouse had stolen her virtue.
He had.
She squirmed backwards in his arms. The wide green-gray eyes searched his face. “Why? I’m not at all sorry. It all has been far more pleasurable than I ever imagined.”
“I do not see how you could do such a thing,” he said sadly. “To give up something like that, something so precious, casually to a man you’ve known less than a week.”
“It was not casual,” she said. “You know it wasn’t. And you cannot—you will not—make me feel bad about this, Mr. Mick McCann. It is too wonderful.” She shoved away and rolled off his lap and lay on her side away from him, sulky for the first time since he’d met her. “So don’t start in with your this-is-only-sex talk again.”
“No. I know I was insulting before. I was trying to be a bastard. Turns out I pretty well succeeded, eh?” he muttered. He knew he shouldn’t grab at her again, so he pushed up his knees and rested his arms on them.
With a soft exhalation of breath, he laid his head on his folded arms and examined her stiff, offended back, wondering what he was supposed to do or say.
What the hell did this mean, he thought, lost in strange confusion of annoyance, fear, and anticipation. What in God’s name were the rules?
She was natural in her body, happy with play, and he had never felt so in tune with a woman during intimacy. Not that he’d had legions of females. He believed he knew her because he had discovered how to please her. Saints above, how shockingly wrong he had been.
He mumbled, “Strikes me as beyond strange that we could be so close here in my bed and I understand you not at all.”
She didn’t answer.
“Please do not grow angry. But tell me how could you give up your honor so easily?”
She did not answer immediately. “I am not sure how I knew it was right. Except that I knew I gave it to an honorable man.”
Oh. Blast. He could guess what that meant. If she was anything like the women he did understand, she would expect him to make amends.
He felt a flash of resentment. She should have said she was an innocent.
But even as the bitterness filled him, he knew he was unfair. She never mentioned the matter, he recalled. She was an experienced woman of the world and Mick chose to believe that was true in all matters.
He’d had a choice. No one held a gun to his head and demanded he push his cock into this woman.
Oh Lord. If she said yes to him, he would be in for more than he ever bargained for. Trapped forever.A gorgeous body, the loveliest he had ever beheld, but what a strange, outlandish person inside.
He gathered the courage he needed and after a long silence he whispered rather unsteadily, “Shall I marry you then?”
A longer silence.
She rolled onto her back and looked up at him, intently. “Do you love me?”
He spoke louder, in a firm voice. “Timmy. I took your virtue. It is right and proper I offer you marriage.”
“What would you do if I hadn’t been a virgin? Would you have mentioned marriage to me? Would you have even thought of marrying me?”
He didn’t answer for several long moments. Thought had little or nothing to do with the last few hours.
Should he be honest and say “no”? And was the honest reply “no”?
He’d always understood marriage equaled a quiet life with a woman you cherished and respected. A woman you had known and admired for a long while before you took that big step.
Taking a woman from outside your own walk of life. Taking her with crazy—no, brainless—animal lust. That had naught to do with the word marriage.
And she had been as much of an animal, too. She had allowed him to do whatever he wanted and did some shocking things in return. Did he want to wed any woman who would use her mouth in such scandalous and interesting ways? Well, as it happens, he might reply “yes” to that particular question.
Before he could figure out an answer to the larger question, honest or otherwise, Timmy groaned. “Oh, bother. No, I won’t marry you, Mick.”
“Timmy, think now, becau—”
She interrupted. “I wish I hadn’t told you I was a virgin. Or you weren’t quite so bloody honorable.”
He gave a startled laugh. “I don’t understand, Timona.”
“It makes perfect sense. I hate men who think to compromise women in order to force them into marriage. I, ah, have had some brushes with men like that. I despise coercion.”
He thought she would elaborate. Instead she said, “But tell me. Why did you couple with me, Mick? And, pray, do not tell me again about men with their needs.”
He thumped down onto the bed next to her again, and took a deep breath. The inhalation carried the scent of sex, sweat and pure Timmy. A fragrance that brought back echoes of his fearful craving for her.
“What else was it then? Pure hellish need. The smell of akes me dead faint with hunger. Watching you walk, laugh, even sit at the Graves damn dinner table about drove me out of my wits. Even while I was fuming about Daisy’s sparking another lad, there I sat, panting after you.”
“Last night I could barely keep myself planted on that floor. The whole damn night I lay awake, half a minute from crawling across to get into my bed with you. See? It’s easy to explain. Even if I had gained relief on me own . . .”
He paused to look at her, not sure if she took his meaning and fairly sure he didn’t want to explain self abuse or self pollution, as Father Connor called it.
But she nodded her understanding, so he went on. “Well. The point is, I would have shattered if you’d stayed here another night and I hadn’t had you.”
He held his fists above them, and opened his fingers to demonstrate an explosion. “Boom. The very first man in history to have died of lust.”
She giggled. “That’s easy enough to understand.”
“Ah, sure. I’m easy. You, though—ach, I wish I could fathom you. And your world.”
“That’s a start,” she said cheerfully and turned onto her side to face him again. “You don’t have me pigeonholed anymore do you?”
“Do you mean do I begin to understand you at all? Not bloody likely.”
“Very good,” she said and moved close to lightly kiss his neck. He moved onto his side toward her. She ran her hands lightly over and over his shoulders, then down his spine. Incredible. He felt the hint of lust stir again.
“And are you at all curious about me?” she whispered.
Mick laughed. “Mostly terrified. But, aye, I am a bit curious about what makes you tick.”
She inched away from him. Then she blushed. A soft pink he noted, not bright red. She toyed with a lock of her hair that lay across her charming breast. He wondered if she were about to reveal some horrible secret, like she was engaged to a lad with Othello-like tendencies.
“You were kind enough to play for me on your, ah, flute. So . . . did I mention I like to take pictures? Lately I’ve taken pictures of buildings. Man-made structures. Do you know how photography works?”
“No, but I’m willin’ to learn, Timona. Though I’m not sure a bed is the best place to teach a man—”
She pulled him down to her and kissed him.
Chapter 11
Blenheim found the latest telegram waiting for him in Chicago. “AM DETAINED IN NEW YORK STOP WILL MEET YOU IN MINNESOTA STOP PLEASE RESPOND SO I KNOW YOU ARE WITH FATHER STOP APOLOGIES FOR DELAY BUT NOT TO WORRY STOP TIMONA C.”
He sent his response to the New York bank right away, and made his note as terse as hers. She’d see how it felt to get so little information. “RECEIVED YOUR MESSAGE IN CHICAGO STOP YES I AM WITH SIR KENNETH STOP BLENHEIM.”
But he felt he should do more. He nervously rubbed the solid chain of his watch between two fingers as he reread the short note. She never worried about saving money on her telegrams. Usually telegrams from Timona were as long as letters.
Something was wrong with the blasted girl. He would bet his last shilling that his beloved had perhaps somehow gotten thrown into a predicament—of her own making, no doubt. He sighed. If he set Taylor r Benhurst from the New York office on her trail, they might elbow their way into her attentions, particularly if they came to her rescue.
The last time they came through New York, Taylor had made it clear he liked Miss Calverson’s looks. Very clear. Blenheim saw Taylor’s interest, but Miss Calverson who never appeared to pay attention to such things, did not.
The first time she’d noticed Blenheim was when he fetched back her father from a Hindu temple the old man had wandered to. Her grateful hug on that occasion still formed a role in some of his fantasies.
On the other hand, if he left either Taylor or Benhurst or anyone in the smaller Chicago office in charge of Sir Kenneth, the old son of a bachelor might take a liking to one of those chaps. Blenheim might find himself back in an office somewhere in the Calverson organization. He’d lose his plum job and constant access to the woman he loved.
What to do, what to do.
Only one man had the connections in New York to deal with the problem and not threaten Blenheim’s ultimate plan for Timona. Blenheim pulled out a telegram form and started a carefully worded note to Mr. Griffin Calverson. A splendid chap, Griffin, splendid. But it did not do to rile him unnecessarily.
Blenheim had heard from the New York office that Griffin was actually in New York State, too. Albany or somewhere. Good, Taylor could track him down if the bank couldn’t.
“CONCERNED TIMONA C IN SOME SORT OF TROUBLE STOP BANK MANAGER SHOULD KNOW HER WHEREABOUTS STOP BLENHEIM.” He crossed out “trouble” and wrote in “situation.” And then he crossed out his name. If the bank manager didn’t, in fact, know where Timona was, then he’d be the one to get the blame. Blenheim addressed it to the Calverson office in New York City and handed it to the Western Union operator.
For a moment he leaned against a wall of the station to finger his watch chain and worry about Timona. But then he heard Sir Kenneth’s happy chatter.
From the sound of it, the blighter had found a railroad enthusiast and was eagerly listening to some nonsense about steam engines. It wasn’t dinosaurs for a nice change.
Nevertheless Blenheim would have to interrupt and drag him along to the hotel before Sir Kenneth wandered off with the railroad man. Sir Kenneth often appreciated fellow fanatics no matter what their interests. At least in Chicago the dreadful nuisance of a man wouldn’t go off with cannibals to observe their rituals.
After their night of making love, Mick woke first. Afraid to move, he watched Timona sleep. What if she woke and finally fathomed the serious mistake she’d made? Would she bemoan her lost virtue? What would he do, how could he comfort her, if she felt shame and shrank away from him?
Eventually Botty, and his own body, demanded they go outside.
He quietly pulled on trousers and a shirt and went out back.
When he returned to the apartment, Timona still slept. Mick hesitated, and then peeled back the covers to get back in bed. He stopped. She lay on her stomach and the sight of her naked back in the dim daylight that filtered through the half-boarded window enthralled him.
He pulled the covers down further to admire her mesmerizing body. Her long hair fanned across her back and onto the bed.
The place where her rear met her legs had a curve that made him wish he could draw. He stood by the ed and bent to trace the line of her with his hand.
The moment his fingers lightly stroked the curve of her bottom, she woke. Almost at once she rolled onto her back and held open her arms. The welcoming arms and her sleepy smile made Mick release a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.
Again! He thought, and his heart beat very fast with anticipation and something he dimly recognized as relief. He shucked his shirt and trousers and crawled back into bed with her.
After they made love, they talked. Or rather, Timona continued asking questions.
She leaned on her elbow and stroked her other hand across his chin. The bristles on his face were pleasantly scratchy on her fingertips. “Tell me more. Tell me why you are in this country,” she demanded.
“Money, of course.”
“How on earth did you end up as a policeman?”
“I made the crossing from Ireland with the second cousin of Kelly, who’s a Tammany boss. That and me size gave me the excellent job.”
“Excellent?” She tried not to sound snide.
“Oh, now, a copper’s pay is mighty fine for a man like me. Even without . . . that.” He waved a hand at his drawer full of cash. “And back home Mam and the kids required money as soon as I could lay my hands on some. I did not have the time to wander out to a farm or ranch in search of work.”
Mick mentioned his mother’s propensity to sit back and wait for heaven to take care of matters. But he didn’t condemn the woman. “After all,” he pointed out, “after Da died, all she had was bills and hungry children. ’Tis no wonder she turned to prayer.”
Timona, hesitant, asked, “Do you wish to go back to live with your mother some day?”
He laughed. “Nay, never. She is too sad around me. I am too like Da to make her comfortable and too unlike him to make her happy.”
“Unlike? How?”
“Da wanted to be a doctor, but spent his life scrabbling for food. His dreams were big, but he lacked the wherewithal or drive to make them real and he didn’t get anywhere. I loved and respected the man, but he was something of a failure, you see,” he said, bitterly. “I shan’t fall into that trap.”
“What do you mean?”
“I keep my ambitions small, Timmy Calverson. I won’t hanker after the impossible. I watched him lose his joy in life because he longed for something he could never afford to be or do.”
He looked at her, troubled. And seemed about to speak, but then clamped his lips tight.
“Go on,” she urged. “What were you going to say? I know you were about to—”
But he had inched close to her and now leaned over her and stopped her mouth with his.
She dissolved into his warm kiss, all the while thinking, damn the man: Perhaps he was going to tell her he didn’t want anything to do with her. She imagined he would come up with some dreadful nonsense, like she drew too much attention for a humble man like himself. Or something horrid about money again.
Fine. Timona would never pressure him. She made that decision the night before, after she saw the look of horror enter his eyes, just before he asked her to marry him in a French-nobleman-facing-the-guillotine voice.
She would wait for a very specific, clear signal before she again broached the subject of their future together.
When they stopped kissing to breathe, she opened her mouth to speak. But Mick’s lips and tongue swooped in again. He clutched her hungrily, as if he’d never so much as touched her before. The fire was not banked far down in her, either.
Much later, she lay with her head resting on his chest, and the hair tickled her ear as she listened to the deep rhythm of his breath and heartbeat. She said, “Tell me how else you are different from your father.”
“You are the most persistent little pest,” he said mildly.
“Yes. You will be astonished to hear that you are not the first to mention it. Go on, please tell me, Mick.”
“Yes, yer royal highness. Well, hmm. Da was a far gentler man than me. He would never have been able to use the club on his worst enemy. And he kissed Bottom’s arse.”
Timona understood he meant the landlord, Botham, not the hideous mutt.
“Go on,” she reminded him as she ran a hand over his chest, memorizing the feel of the skin and muscles under her fingers.
“I was not so obliging. When Da died, we were in arrears with our rent, tithes, grocers, oh, any debt you could mention. I worked me tail off, and so did Dee, my sister, but we could not get ahead of the bills. So a few years ago, I wrote to Bottom, asking for help finding a solution.”
“Did he help?”
Mick shook his head. “Bottom summoned me and Mam. And he offered me a job in his filthy stables and with his mangy hounds. But a whole day’s work, every day, for no pay—only to make up the family’s rent which we hadn’t paid in full for almost a year. And as the deal stood, t’would have taken a good many years to pay that off. Mam wanted me to oblige the man. Da would have done it and been happy about it.”
Timona shifted her head so that she could hear his slow, steady heartbeat again. “And what about you?” she asked.
“At the interview I didn’t even stop to think it over, the way he and Mam asked me to. I told the man to kiss my arse for a change.”
He laughed. She loved the way the low-pitched velvety sound of it filled her body. “Bottom might have gotten over it by now, but me poor Mam never will.”
He touched the tip of her nose with his forefinger. “Now tis my turn to be inquisitor. I know something of your father and brother from all yesterday’s talk of your adventures, but what of your mother and any others in your family?”
“Oh, I can barely recall my mother.”
“I am sorry.”
“She’s not dead, just no longer a part of our family.”
Mick appeared to be waiting for an explanation, but Timona was entirely uninterested in discussing herself. At the moment she was tired of being one of the famous Calversons. Besides she was ravenous.
“Wait here.” She hopped out of bed, grabbed the parcel of pastries and two plates, and her handkerchief.
She carefully lowered herself onto the edge of the bed next to him. “Breakfast is served. I consider it the height of luxury to eat breakfast in bed. Even this bed.”
She doled out the last of the stale pastries and started to wipe a bit of jam off her finger with her handkerchief.
“Here, wait,” protested Mick. He grabbed her hand and gently and thoroughly sucked the er ff her forefinger. “Now that is the way to eat a good breakfast.”
Timona breathlessly agreed.
Mick lay, one hand cupped behind his head, the other balancing the plate on his bare chest. His clear blue gaze steadily regarded her. He had a wide grin on his face. “Hey, girl, I hope you notice I allowed you to change the subject? When you would dodge away, I let you go. And wasn’t merely because I was famished meself. I’m what they call polite. Not pushy, like some I could mention.”
She grinned back. And here she thought he simply wasn’t paying attention. “Perhaps someday I might learn from your improving example, but I would not hold my breath if I were you, Mick McCann. So now, tell me about your village.”
The next day, Mick went back to work, and he took a long break to go into the library. He asked for articles that mentioned Timona Calverson.
The head librarian certainly had heard of Timmy.
“We had a librarian who collected all the columns that mentioned the crazy Calversons.”
The woman found the thick, leather-bound scrapbook and handed it to Mick, warning him to return it to the desk when he was finished.
What he found in the book entirely stole his peace.
Timona had indeed ridden camels. And led llamas through the high mountains in South America. And fled a man-eating tiger in India. The next day her brother joined a hunt that went out and brought the tiger down.
She had been captured, kidnapped, escaped fires, climbed mountains no white woman had ever even seen before and gone deep into jungles few had even heard of. She had visited kings and princes and sheiks and rajahs. As a young girl, she had lived for months with a tribe of South American Indians. And the material pasted into the book ended two years earlier. Who knew what she’d been up to since then?
Mick looked up to see a man with yellow hair walk past. There was something familiar about him . . . but Mick soon forgot everything else as he read about Timona Calverson, visitor to the court of the Russian Czar.
Mick wandered out of the library in a daze. He’d hoped to understand her better after reading the stories of Timmy, but the outlandish woman seemed more alien than ever.
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